tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-349073362018-03-06T11:36:34.279-06:00SONG LINEEveryone knows how a song casts you back to a specific moment. When memory fails, remember a song to recall an exact point in time.
If there is no song, I can’t remember it; I have a jukebox soul. Chronologically stringing these memories together is a song line.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-9692729385027317072010-02-06T21:31:00.005-06:002010-02-06T21:48:28.292-06:00November 1973: HELEN REDDY - Leave Me Alone (Ruby Red Dress)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S240K1O6l_I/AAAAAAAAB3U/7lt2sQS91v8/s1600-h/helen+reddy+leave+me+alone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 276px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S240K1O6l_I/AAAAAAAAB3U/7lt2sQS91v8/s400/helen+reddy+leave+me+alone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435339160975742962" border="0" /></a><br />I had the biggest crush on a blonde hair, blue eyed boy in my 2nd grade class, Scott Van Seiver. Proximity is what made these feelings so urgent: he sat next to me alphabetically in class and lived down the street from the lady who babysat me, so I saw him on the walks to and from school. Sometimes he’d join us, and all this togetherness was exhilarating. <br /><br />One day in class, I was quietly singing the chorus to “Ruby Red Dress,” and Scott said, “I love Helen Reddy.” I felt an odd pang of jealousy; if he loved her, could he possibly like me? <br /><br />“Leave me alone, won’t you leave me alone…” After constantly refusing to join, I finally said “yes” to becoming a Brownie. Hell, the meetings were at the babysitter’s house, and since I was already there, it was getting hard to avoid it. I liked the snacks and the crafts (jewelry boxes made of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue – what’s not to love?), but was most enthralled when we gathered in a circle and sang songs. I especially loved that each meeting ended with the singing of the same song, much like Sonny &amp; Cher always ending their show with “I Got You Babe.” I appreciated this adherence to showbiz tradition.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S242lxFF1sI/AAAAAAAAB3c/_Kq7UxmvZ-g/s1600-h/brownie+uniforms.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 365px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S242lxFF1sI/AAAAAAAAB3c/_Kq7UxmvZ-g/s400/brownie+uniforms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435341822740518594" border="0" /></a><br />What I did not appreciate was the Brownie uniform. If it had been the cotton, shirtwaist dress model with the crisp, elf collar and bow tie with matching belt and hat, I’d have been ultra happy. Snacks and that uniform were the reason I gave in and joined. But 1973 was the year the Girl Scouts of America decided to update its image. <br /><br />The uniform they sold to us at Goldie’s department store in the Village Square shopping center was a shapeless polyester jumper (you had to supply your own shirt to wear underneath!) the color of cheap chocolate milk. The hat had become a dark brown polyester/wool beanie that didn’t match the jumper, and the formerly natty bow tie was now a strip of burnt orange polyester shaped like a bowlegged man’s tie. <br /><br />The new uniform made our troop look like walking baked potatoes, and even the troop leaders must have felt negatively toward the new look because they only made us wear them when out in public doing official Brownie business. And after suffering through one public Brownie event in that ridiculous costume, I made sure to somehow forget/skip out/be sick for every event after that.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btQVtq03E2o" target="_blank">See Helen Reddy perform "Leave Me Alone" on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-2556091306337486092010-02-06T20:27:00.003-06:002010-02-06T20:35:01.067-06:00October 1973: CHARLIE RICH - The Most Beautiful Girl in the World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24lPvDgnNI/AAAAAAAAB3E/-3qz5krCqpA/s1600-h/Charlie+Rich.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24lPvDgnNI/AAAAAAAAB3E/-3qz5krCqpA/s400/Charlie+Rich.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435322752542219474" border="0" /></a>My Father was gaga in love with his new wife, Joy, while I was falling deeper into dislike with her one visitation weekend at a time. He thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and I thought she was bad news. <br /><br />The walls of their tiny apartment were paper thin, so I had to endure hearing them make sex noises, which was gross and maddening. But even more damaging was Joy constantly trying to win me over with things that I had no interest in. <br /><br />For example, for my birthday, she gave me the Donny Osmond album <a href="http://www.donny.com/release/1970s-then_and_now/my_best_to_you" target="_blank">My Best To You</a>. A new teen idol had yet to take the place of my beloved David Cassidy, and Donny certainly wasn’t even in the running. But Joy was thinking that since Donny was so hot at the time, surely I liked him, thus the album was presented to me with great fanfare.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24ljEwvd2I/AAAAAAAAB3M/gb3iW3fbKI0/s1600-h/donny+osmond+my+best+to+you.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 305px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24ljEwvd2I/AAAAAAAAB3M/gb3iW3fbKI0/s400/donny+osmond+my+best+to+you.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435323084786595682" border="0" /><br /></a>She obviously did not remember how important teen idols were, and that a deep love for them happens spontaneously and organically. It cannot be foisted upon you like an arranged marriage, and I wanted nothing to do with that album. <br /><br />But Joy insisted upon us playing it repeatedly, with her bopping and singing excitedly in an attempt to engage me in some giddy girlie bonding. I did like the song “I Knew You When,” and maybe I would have liked the rest of the songs if she hadn’t been so desperate to make me like them. <br /><br />Then it turns out Donny covered a song that Wayne Newton had also covered, and turns out Joy absolutely adored her some Wayne Newton. So she pulled out that album so I could hear his version. You’d think that since the moment traumatized me so much, I’d remember clearly what the song was, especially since she was exuberantly singing along with it while Dad smiled wildly. But the mind tries to be kind by blocking out ugly things, and this was one of those things.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gzr2v9yNiEk" target="_blank">See Charlie Rich perform "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World."</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-87783060899084330032010-02-06T19:39:00.003-06:002010-02-06T20:35:29.913-06:00September 1973: CHER - Half-Breed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24aBgpvEtI/AAAAAAAAB28/F0kJAlDIH48/s1600-h/cher+half-breed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 317px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24aBgpvEtI/AAAAAAAAB28/F0kJAlDIH48/s400/cher+half-breed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435310413529944786" border="0" /></a><br />With one song, Cher made me switch sides from wanting to be a cowgirl to wishing I was an Indian maiden with the floor-length headdress like the one she wore while singing the song on <span style="font-style: italic;">The Sonny &amp; Cher Show</span>. I still want that headdress, and I’ve come close to it a couple of times: the <a href="http://www.cherscholar.com/dolls.htm" target="_blank">Cher half breed doll</a> and being invited to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5KbkrVoR9I" target="_blank">portray an Indian in a music video</a>.<br /><br />Cher performed the song on horseback, and I, <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span>, could sing it on horseback…well, technically, on the back of my Shetland pony. But since she was short, there might be a problem with the feathers dragging on the ground. And there was one other technical glitch with executing this idea: Sugar had recently given birth, so was busy nursing a little one.<br /><br />Yes, <a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2009/06/august-1972-chicago-saturday-in-park.html" target="_blank">that public moment of copulation with Billy Blue Blazes</a> did result in an exquisite little colt my Father named Star. Yes, Sugar gestated for about 370 days, which is not all that unusual.<br /><br />During the separation, my Dad had shipped the pregnant Sugar from our paddock on Douglas Road to the ranch of Art and Ann Klein in Brighton, Illinois. Art and Ann were the couple who gave me <a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2006/10/december-1970-lynn-anderson-rose.html" target="_blank">the red cowgirl outfit</a>, so this (and about 10 acres of fenced pasture) made them the perfect adoptive parents for Sugar.<br /><br />I was enchanted by the little colt, and thrilled to see Sugar every now and then, but because it was every now and then, it felt more like visiting a petting zoo than spending time with my pony and colt. Sometime later when Dad sold the pair to a co-worker living in Troy, MO, it registered nowhere near the sadness he expected upon telling me the news. I had to pretend to be sad just to match his expectations. There was no way for him to understand, or me to explain, that I had a callused heart from having lost Sugar – among many other things – in September of 1972, and that I was just happy that some big, happy family would now love and play with my pony.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxoWto09Oyg" target="_blank">Here's an iconic Cher moment: "Half-Breed."</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-43030149309648846232010-02-06T18:51:00.004-06:002010-02-06T20:35:51.443-06:00September 1973: PAUL SIMON - Loves Me Like a Rock<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24OwfTOmUI/AAAAAAAAB20/ack9eOdM_Ec/s1600-h/Paul+Simon+-+Loves+Me+Like+A+Rock.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S24OwfTOmUI/AAAAAAAAB20/ack9eOdM_Ec/s400/Paul+Simon+-+Loves+Me+Like+A+Rock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435298026481424706" border="0" /></a><br />My Mother begins dating a man named Dale, who has a modified version of <a href="http://www.charlierich.com/" target="_blank">Charlie Rich's hair</a>, drinks too much, drives too fast and smells of Old Spice (with a Cutty Sark top note). He also has a skinny blonde son named Jeff, who is the same age as me.<br /><br />Jeff was a deeply morose little guy because his mother had died the previous year. I was angry because I’d “lost” my father around the same time. When we had to hang out together, it always felt like we should have had a connection but something key was missing. Now I realize that if we’d been adults, we’d have spent our time together moaning about how life sucks over way too many cocktails and bonding for life. But as it stood, I was full of piss and vinegar while he was mopey and lethargic, and that was an uncomfortable combination.<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91-sIXPX7ZA" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;">See Paul Simon perform "Loves Me Like A Rock."</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-60982980725247446252010-01-10T18:38:00.007-06:002010-02-06T20:36:03.956-06:00August 1973: PAUL McCARTNEY & WINGS - Live and Let Die<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0pzBRWSiEI/AAAAAAAAB2s/EKpV6hknXV4/s1600-h/live+and+let+die.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0pzBRWSiEI/AAAAAAAAB2s/EKpV6hknXV4/s400/live+and+let+die.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425275166795139138" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ></span></p>Considering my age, I knew more about the solo Paul McCartney work than his legacy as a Beatle. In essence, I was unencumbered by the weight of his history, so I just took his solo work at face value, and was very happy with it. And his song “Live and Let Die” allowed me to work off a lot of steam.<br /><br />In this month, I got two disturbing pieces of news.<br /><br />#1: My Mother had to break the news that my Father had married Joy. This meant that when I went for a weekend visitation to their one-bedroom apartment in Ferguson, I had to be nice to wife #3.<br /><br />Oh, she tried to win me over, plying me with macaroni and cheese and popsicles, but she felt more like an obstruction between me and my Dad. And it was especially confusing when he started talking about how I could come live with them – wouldn’t that be fun? But since I had to sleep on a fold-out cot in their living room, I didn’t think doing this full-time would be all that fun. And I noted that Joy never joined in these “come live with us” monologues, since they always happened when she wasn’t around.<br /><br />#2: My Mother had procured me a babysitter, a place I could stay before and after school, as I was about to start 2nd grade.<br /><br />Previously, I’d been staying with a lady named Linda, who was in the same apartment building as ours, so it was familiar surroundings. And even though Linda had me drinking powdered milk (ewwwww!), she also introduced me to making Charlie Brown Christmas ornaments out of dough that was baked solid in the oven, so she was cool.<br /><br />But now I’d be staying with a lady – Shirley - who lived in Seven Hills, a subdivision about a quarter mile away from the apartments. This meant I’d be walking in the opposite direction after school, and would be in a new setting with her 3 kids, Kim, Lisa and Brian. I noted that Shirley had a little dog, which was a bonus, but not enough of a bonus to keep me from reacting badly to this change of plans.<br /><br />Which is where Paul McCartney came in handy. He made me feel better when he sang, “<span style="font-style: italic;">But if this ever changing world in which we live in makes you give in and cry/Say live and let die</span>.” Never underestimate the therapeutic qualities of good melodrama.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nR46gQLyxuE" target="_blank&quot;">See Paul McCartney &amp; Wings do "Live &amp; Let Die."</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-23801021194236899252010-01-10T18:06:00.004-06:002010-01-10T18:10:57.158-06:00July 1973: MAUREEN McGOVERN - The Morning After<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0prgUasWOI/AAAAAAAAB2k/awzCGTe6P5U/s1600-h/maureen+mcgovern.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 334px; height: 356px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0prgUasWOI/AAAAAAAAB2k/awzCGTe6P5U/s400/maureen+mcgovern.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425266904101837026" border="0" /></a><br />This was the theme song to <span style="font-style: italic;">The Poseidon Adventure</span>, and this movie marked my first visit to a drive-in theater (<a href="http://cinematreasures.org/theater/8619/" target="_blank&quot;">the 270 Drive-In</a>, Florissant, MO). <br /><br />Mindy was an older girl in the apartment complex, and I piled into her family’s station wagon for this maiden movie voyage. Now, my Mother had a serious, life-long movie-going jones, so I’d been to a lot of movie theaters, but this outdoor experience was really something special. <br /><br />The sound of pebbles crunching under the tires was exciting, and then the car parked, the father rolled down the windows and attached a tiny radio to the window and that’s how we heard the movie! Then others in the car brought us popcorn – this was getting better by the minute! <br /><br />But about 20 minutes into the flick, the problems with this concept became clear: Kids jumping around and screaming in the station wagon made it impossible to see or hear the damn movie! I had to wait many a year to finally see the entire movie and glory to Shelly Winters Shamu-swim through the water. But I did learn a valuable lesson: drive-in movies were about everything BUT watching the movie. <br /><br />And the next time Mindy asked if I wanted to go with them to the 270 Drive-In, I simply said, “no.” She tried to bribe me into going by giving me a plastic Tyrannosaurs Rex. I took the dinosaur, but still refused to go.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy76Rqcob4Y" target="_blank&quot;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hear "The Morning After" with scenes from the movie.</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-3549810947135835282010-01-10T17:22:00.002-06:002010-01-10T17:28:29.320-06:00June 1973: EDGAR WINTER GROUP - Frankenstein<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0phcCwi92I/AAAAAAAAB2c/MYa1NnoSpvI/s1600-h/edgar+winter+group.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0phcCwi92I/AAAAAAAAB2c/MYa1NnoSpvI/s400/edgar+winter+group.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425255835525904226" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ></span></p>My Mother’s best friend, Blanche, was marrying a quintessential Irish cop, and Mom was in the wedding party. On the night of the wedding, I stayed at the house of the woman who made the pink and white polyester bridesmaid dresses, and was left in the care of her 15-year old daughter. <br /><br />The daughter was tall and skinny with long, frizzy hair (when I saw Lorraine Newman on <span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night Live</span> a few years later, she reminded me of the daughter) and a dark brown suede vest with beaded fringe, which I thought was pretty cool because it constantly made a quiet clinking noise. <br /><br />I thought it was even cooler when she me took upstairs to her attic bedroom and started sharing her stuff with me. She put on a record by a group called Deep Purple (turns out it was <span style="font-style: italic;">Machine Head</span>) and explained what “Smoke on the Water” was all about. I nodded my head as if I understood, and then said that one of the guys (Ian Gillan) was really cute, which set her off into a spasm of excitement. <br /><br />She yanked out her high school yearbook to show me that the guy she had the biggest crush on looked “just like” Ian Gillan. It was confusing, because the cute guy in the tiny black and white photo had long blonde hair, but she was a high school girl, so obviously she knew better than me, right? <br /><br />After turning her back to me for a few minutes, she got all animated. I asked what that smell was.<br />“What smell?” <br />“It smells like burnt Pop Tarts.”<br />She giggled wildly, interspersing it with the phrase, “Pot Tarts!”<br />There was that word again: pot. Just what in the hell is pot? <br /><br />Somehow, I became her Mother Confessor, as she told a fast string of stories about pot, and booze and boys that made no sense, but because I was listening intently, she kept rambling on while slapping a rotation of vinyl onto the stereo. I was perfectly content absorbing all this new data (I really dug the beads hanging in the doorways), and was really liking the circular keyboard squawking of a song she told me was called “Frankenstein.” But then she handed me the album to look at, and on the cover was a really creepy looking white guy – <span style="font-style: italic;">really, really white</span> – with makeup and ladies’ jewelry. And even though there were some cute guys in other photos on the album cover, the creepy white freak was in all of them, too! <br /><br />All of a sudden, “Frankenstein” started sounding as creepy as that freak looked, and the daughter’s non-stop yammering became grating, and I’d hit my limit. I tossed the record on the bed and bolted out of the room and down the stairs. The daughter came running after me, asking what was wrong. I now stood in the kitchen, and simply said, “I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” <br /><br />She made me the sandwich, and asked if I wanted to bring it upstairs to eat. I simply took the sandwich into the living room, sat on the couch and stared at the TV. Daughter finally got the hint and left me alone.<br />Whew!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1mV_5-bRPo" target="_blank&quot;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">See "the freak" doing "Frankenstein."</span></a><br /><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-32038975755922564312010-01-10T16:22:00.004-06:002010-01-10T16:29:54.798-06:00May 1973: ALBERT HAMMOND - It Never Rains in California<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0pTXFfWamI/AAAAAAAAB2U/W9ZOHgazknA/s1600-h/albert+hammond+it+never+rains+in+california.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0pTXFfWamI/AAAAAAAAB2U/W9ZOHgazknA/s400/albert+hammond+it+never+rains+in+california.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425240357196950114" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ></span>My parent’s divorce became final, and the only reaction from my Mother that I registered was her trading in her 1967 Plymouth Fury for a 1971 Mercury Cougar. It was bright blue and the perfect car for a divorcee, but it also turned out to be a piece of crap nicknamed “The Blue Bomb” by every mechanic who worked on it. <br /><br />My Father’s reaction to the divorce was introducing me to his girlfriend, Joy. She was way younger than my Dad, which was confusing, and I didn’t like all the Aqua Net blonde hair piled atop her head and the thick black eyeliner. When she offered me a stick of Juicy Fruit in that high, sweet tone women use when talking to other women they dislike, I knew it was a bribe, and my distrust of her was immediate and enduring.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0pTW9AMztI/AAAAAAAAB2M/Qabqe8_4j0w/s1600-h/1971+mercury+cougar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0pTW9AMztI/AAAAAAAAB2M/Qabqe8_4j0w/s400/1971+mercury+cougar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425240354918813394" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" >Incapable of making sense of all these changes, I focused – as usual - on the radio and my new favorite song, “It Never Rains in California.”<span style=""> </span>I was hooked by what I considered the second chorus of the song – the repeating flute refrain, and I considered it a companion piece to “Do You Know the Way To San Jose”: this is what became of our heroine after show biz chewed her up and spit her out.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" >After learning the truth about the weather in California, I lumped it in with <a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2009/06/march-1972-america-horse-with-no-name.html" target="_blank&quot;">“A Horse With No Name,”</a> wherein songs pass off inaccurate information as facts. After telling my Mother about the “lies” of “in the desert you can’t remember your name” and “it never rains California,” she explained the concept of poetic license. <span style=""> </span>After mulling this over, I determined that America’s poetic license was just plain silly, while Albert’s was touching. In retrospect, I probably let up on Albert because he wrote a perfect, melancholy pop tune while America was just plain crap.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KjF58a6V_s" target="_blank&quot;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Here's Albert doing "It Never Rains in California."</span></a><br /><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-79305828054002188732010-01-09T19:17:00.003-06:002010-01-09T19:20:36.142-06:00April 1973: ELTON JOHN - Daniel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kqvBKO8-I/AAAAAAAAB2E/coNnBLWq_xw/s1600-h/elton+john+daniel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 346px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kqvBKO8-I/AAAAAAAAB2E/coNnBLWq_xw/s400/elton+john+daniel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424914213398049762" border="0" /></a>A pale and tiny blonde girl named Danielle lived across the court from me, and she decided this was her song, since it was so close to her name. I took issue with this because, #1: it was about a boy, and #2: she was so weepy and whiney that she didn’t deserve an Elton John song. <br /><br />Shortly after this moment, I was cursed by two embarrassing moments at school: <br /><br />#1: I wet my pants while sitting in the school chair during a reading lesson. I’d raised my hand to ask Miss Kelly if I could go to the bathroom, and she said no, since we were going for a bathroom break in just a bit. But I couldn’t hold it, and out it came. After my bladder was empty, Miss Kelly takes me to the bathroom, and then baffled me by asking why I did that. Adults are very confusing! <br /><br />#2: I got chewed out by the art teacher over my painting. I was trying to depict a nature scene with tempra paint: a blue slash at the top of the paper, and a green slash at the bottom. The teacher – Mr. Kurd – took me to the window to point out that there was no white space between the earth and the sky – they meet, so my painting should reflect this. But back at my seat, I decided I wanted that white space between the earth and sky so I could paint some people in. Mr. Kurd swung back by, saw that I’d ignored his lesson, and said my painting would not get a passing grade. <br /><br />Both of these incidents left me just as weepy and whiney as Danielle, and it taught me a lesson: if someone says it’s “my song,” leave it to them.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ayolhaLMUI" target="_blank&quot;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">See Elton doing "Daniel."</span></a><br />.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:10pt;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-86784510953757238942010-01-09T18:50:00.005-06:002010-01-09T18:58:10.808-06:00March 1973: VICKI LAWRENCE - The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kkXPIIZxI/AAAAAAAAB18/WWfe-poDD5A/s1600-h/vicki+lawrence.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kkXPIIZxI/AAAAAAAAB18/WWfe-poDD5A/s400/vicki+lawrence.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424907207760701202" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:11pt;" ></span></p>Alongside the radio, variety show television was how we heard new songs, and the power of a TV star singing a song (<a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2006/11/october-1971-cher-gypsies-tramps.html" target="_blank&quot;">hello, Cher!</a>) could not be ignored.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Carol Burnett Show</span> was like a religious service in our home, so when one of its stars – Vicki Lawrence – put out the single “The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia,” it was mandatory that I own it. Plus, the single was on the <a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2009/06/july-1972-sweet-little-willy.html" target="_blank&quot;">Bell label, so this was a no-brainer</a>.<br /><br />Luckily, I loved the song, playing it over and over again, trying to figure out the story line. No matter how hard I concentrated, I’d get confused by the plot: murder, multiple infidelities, and corrupt judges… hard for a 7-year old to keep it straight. But all this confusion and misunderstanding just added to the allure, and that chorus was undeniable!<br /><br />Things got even more intriguing when two teenagers in the apartment complex overheard me singing the song while out riding my bike. Jackie and Janel stopped me to ask if I knew “what that song means.” I was too thrilled to have junior high kids purposely talking to me to give an intelligible response, but it didn’t matter, because they started talking animatedly between themselves about plot points, and “pot” and getting in trouble for sneaking off with boys.<br /><br />I asked a question about this last point, and they came back to the reality of talking in front of a dumb grade schooler and went silent, staring at me. Finally, Janel said, “This song has real deep meaning for me, and I can’t tell you why. It’s a secret. And you wouldn’t even understand if I told you.”<br /><br />With that, Jackie and Janel looked at each other and began laughing uproariously as they walked away from me. This sent me back home for a few more listens to the song, trying to unlock Janel’s secret… did she kill someone? From then on, I stayed far away from those two, but watched Janel with a cautious eye because, well, what if she was a murderer?<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:11pt;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6-4N0IPVh8"><span style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank&quot;">Hear the song.</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-31850632746265649482010-01-09T18:06:00.004-06:002010-01-09T18:13:11.111-06:00February 1973: THE O'JAYS - Love Train<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kaH24NFII/AAAAAAAAB1s/sF3KsTq7VEU/s1600-h/ojays.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kaH24NFII/AAAAAAAAB1s/sF3KsTq7VEU/s400/ojays.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424895948437132418" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:11pt;" ></span></p>Bell bottoms. Flares. Elephant flares. All the older kids in the apartment complex wore them, as did so many of the dancers on <span style="font-style: italic;">American Bandstand</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Soul Train</span>. I wanted a pair, real bad, and I finally got a pair!<br /><br />They were elephant flares, of a dark blue, light weight denim. They made the most satisfying thwap thwap sound when I walked, and they swayed magnificently when (figuratively) joining hands with the kids on <span style="font-style: italic;">Soul Train</span> to form a “Love Train.”<br /><br />I loved those “dancing pants,” they made me feel as cool as those kids on TV. I started asking for platforms and an afro. I was told no, and “don’t let your father hear you say that.” <br /><br />I understood what my Mother meant – my Dad didn’t like blacks, and he wouldn’t dig my burgeoning Black Pride. But everything he’d say about them didn’t seem to apply to the black kids I knew from school. This marked the first time I knew my Dad was wrong about something, and my elephant flare dancing pants became a symbol for “Father Does Not Know Best.”<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:11pt;" ></span></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kaVkIOjzI/AAAAAAAAB10/CnvmRQuH1d8/s1600-h/1973+bell+bottoms.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 381px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/S0kaVkIOjzI/AAAAAAAAB10/CnvmRQuH1d8/s400/1973+bell+bottoms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424896183922233138" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7MiG2fe8lE"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Watch a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Soul Train</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> line dance to "Love Train."</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-19747693154793754292009-06-15T20:01:00.004-05:002009-06-15T20:13:51.700-05:00January 1973: CARLY SIMON - You're So Vain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/SjbvGJs7DYI/AAAAAAAABuM/9a-R1yCZydU/s1600-h/1973+carly+simon+youre+so+vain.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/SjbvGJs7DYI/AAAAAAAABuM/9a-R1yCZydU/s400/1973+carly+simon+youre+so+vain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347724496511634818" border="0" /></a><br />Mom needed to find a place for me to go before and after school, so she got me hooked up with some of the other mother’s in the apartment complex. This was basically how I made my first new pals, and it wasn’t optimal conditions because it was borne of car pooling to school during bad weather and babysitting, rather than genuine friendship. <br /><br />I genuinely loved the sound and feel of “You’re So Vain;” it had both a tense and languid tone and the chorus was undeniably great to sing along to... if you could carry a tune. <br /><br />During the school day, it had begun to snow, getting heavier as the day went on. When school let out, the mother of an apartment kid was standing at the entrance to gather us all up and drive us back home, because the weather was too bad for all of us to be walking. <br /><br />I saw all the kids piling into this little Chevy Vega, and decided I’d rather walk home in the snow, but the mother made me get in. So now, we’re all packed in tight, with the heater blasting and the windows fogging, while we sat forever in the parking lot, waiting for the buses to clear out so we could move. <br /><br />And in this physically uncomfortable situation, “You’re So Vain” comes over the car radio, and the mother starts singing along during the chorus, because – really - how can you resist? Problem was, this lady gave “off key” a new meaning; I swear nearby dogs were howling. <br /><br />After what seemed forever, the mother’s own kid finally yelled out, “Mommy, stop singing!” To which Mommy halts the yowling only long enough to say, “But I love this song!” and quickly jumps back in just in time to bray “Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you now!” <br /><br />For the next year or so, just the sound of Carly Simon’s voice made me wince because it instantly conjured this horrific moment.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7B7bVD_DkM4" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"You're So Vain" by Carly Simon.</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-79392225382556285322009-06-15T19:31:00.005-05:002009-06-15T19:37:43.618-05:00December 1972: NEIL DIAMOND - Moods<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Sjbn8v3YWgI/AAAAAAAABuE/u2q-TgHE3qM/s1600-h/1972+neil+diamond+moods.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Sjbn8v3YWgI/AAAAAAAABuE/u2q-TgHE3qM/s400/1972+neil+diamond+moods.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347716638375959042" border="0" /></a><br />Even though my parents were now leading separate lives, they decided to band together one last time for the family Christmas gathering at my Uncle Art &amp; Aunt Marie’s house in Whitney Chase, a subdivision close to our apartment complex. Maybe they were trying to keep up appearances in front of the family (like they didn’t know, or something?), or maybe trying to let me briefly revisit the sense of being a family again, but whatever the reason, it failed. Everyone was uncomfortable, and I didn’t have near as much fun as I normally did at these events because too many family members wound up stroking my hair and looking at me sadly. Pity and Santa just don’t mix. <br /><br />The first Christmas morning with just me and Mom was much better. It was a relief that Santa was able to find me inside this apartment complex, and didn’t mix up my gifts with any of the other kids in the building (a valid worry for a 7 year old). I knew “he” got it right because I got a long, gold necklace with a large round medallion with a cursive “P” in the middle (I still have it to this day), a way to acknowledge my new name.<br /><br />And from a co-worker, Mom got a copy of the latest Neil Diamond album, <span style="font-style: italic;">Moods</span>. “Song Sung Blue” was a huge hit, and Mom sung along with it on the radio with a fervor I didn’t quite understand. But there was a song on the album that made us both really happy, “Gitchy Goomy.”<br /><br />It was upbeat and relentlessly tuneful, causing both of us to play the song over and over, singing along and doing a little jitterbug in the living room. Plus, the guy on the album cover was really, really cute; we both agreed on this important point. So, Neil Diamond forever owns a warm spot in my heart for providing us moments of pure joy in an otherwise bleak holiday season.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLAjyFbIaQM" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Gitchy Goomy" by Neil Diamond.</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-21462039510100687982009-06-15T18:56:00.004-05:002009-06-15T19:04:30.973-05:00December 1972: HELEN REDDY - I Am Woman<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Sjbfrwh1OqI/AAAAAAAABt8/BR8nRJ7s2DM/s1600-h/1972+helen+reddy+i+am+woman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Sjbfrwh1OqI/AAAAAAAABt8/BR8nRJ7s2DM/s400/1972+helen+reddy+i+am+woman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347707550403213986" border="0" /></a><br />From the get go, this was a polarizing song. I only knew that I didn’t like the sound of the singer’s voice, like she had something stuck in her throat and she didn’t bother to clear it before singing. But in the context of what was happening to my Mom, Barb, it must have really annoyed her for other reasons. <br /><br />Barb had always paid her own way until she got married at age 30. She’d had her own credit cards (her first one coming from the Libson’s in Mid-Town St. Louis in the late 1950s ) and checking account up until she got married, when everything changed over to joint accounts. But now that she was newly single, she had to start all over again, and while the checking account was easy, credit cards were not.<br /><br />It seems that going from Miss to Mrs. had wiped her previous financial slate clean, and now that she was returning to Miss, Mastercard considered her a blank slate with no credit history and refused to issue her a card. Even though they could see the excellent credit record attached to her Social Security number, being a divorcee made her an untested, financial risk in their eyes and they shut her out. <br /><br />Atop the pain of a busted marriage and the fear of a strange new future as a divorced, single mom, she had to fight for her financial independence against institutions that were, basically, punishing women for no longer being a Mrs. <br /><br />This was not an “I Am Woman” Women’s Liberation situation, this was “yes, I’ve paid the price…” but not with a credit card? You bastards! She fought Mastercard, and she won, and thankfully, she was now able to feed and clothe us. “I am strong, I am invincible,” I am credit worthy once again.<br /><br /><a href="http://tobymelt.blogspot.com/2005/05/post-feminist-sexist.html" target="_blank">Here's more about Barb being an Accidental Feminist.</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmExAiCcaPk" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"I Am Woman" by Helen Reddy.</span></a><br />.<br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:11;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-28625112083112235122009-06-15T18:26:00.004-05:002009-06-15T18:30:59.219-05:00November 1972: GILBERT O'SULLIVAN - Clair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/SjbYuDmc97I/AAAAAAAABt0/E0kILoWmapY/s1600-h/1972+gilber+osullivan+clair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 350px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/SjbYuDmc97I/AAAAAAAABt0/E0kILoWmapY/s400/1972+gilber+osullivan+clair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347699893301213106" border="0" /></a><br />Mom and I were both a bit shell shocked and had trouble sleeping at night. One cold night, we were on the couch, with me lying over my Mother’s lap. The entire apartment was dark except for one lamp on the end table, and the glow from the Zenith stereo playing the radio. <br /><br />As she scratched my back, “Oh Clair” came over the airwaves, and I keyed in on the singer trying to get the girl he was babysitting to go to sleep, while Mom was doing the same with me. But I didn’t get to learn the outcome of Gilbert’s story because I drifted away to sleep.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27FP0GTlkWA" target="_blank">"Clair" by Gilbert O'Sullivan</a>.<br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-5596105954996730402009-06-15T18:18:00.003-05:002009-06-15T18:26:10.693-05:00November 1972: ARLO GUTHRIE - City of New Orleans<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/SjbW_dr6GpI/AAAAAAAABts/aLW9ykmOaq8/s1600-h/1972+arlo+guthrie+city+of+new+orleans.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 294px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/SjbW_dr6GpI/AAAAAAAABts/aLW9ykmOaq8/s400/1972+arlo+guthrie+city+of+new+orleans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347697993337936530" border="0" /></a><br />My parent’s legal separation was on the books, and it was time for me and Mom to move out of the house. I remember the Mayflower moving van in the driveway at the ranch, and then cut to being inside our 2-bedroom apartment in Black Jack, with my Dad hanging pictures on the one fake wood panel wall in the tiny living room, his way of helping out before he went back to wherever it was that he was now living. <br /><br />We were to live in the Whisper Lake apartment complex for 13 years, but at this moment, it was strange. I’d always lived in houses with front and back yards (or in the case of the ranch, <span style="font-style: italic;">acres</span> of yard!) and houses separated by driveways. The apartment complex was a series of courts and tall buildings surrounded by cars, and the neighbors were only a wall or floor away, and you could <span style="font-style: italic;">hear</span> them, which meant I had to learn to be more quiet since they could hear us, as well. <br /><br />This strange new environment meant I was going to a new grade school – J.E. Jury Elementary – which was a short walk away from the apartments. Mom brings me into the administration office to register me for class, and as she’s filling out the paperwork she explains to the ladies behind the desk that even though my name is officially Patricia, everyone calls me Toby, so please make note of that and call her by that name. <br /><br />I abruptly interrupted this exchange to boldly state, in no uncertain terms, that I was to be called “Pat.” Mom’s outward shock certainly matched my inward shock: where did <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> come from? Even at the moment I said it, I didn’t like the name Pat, but I also didn’t want anyone in my new life calling me by a nickname my Dad had given me. Since he left, he could take his nickname with him! <br /><br />In retrospect, that was the moment I had summoned forth the identity confusion that would plague me until I hit my early 30s. From then on, half the people in my life called my Toby, the other half called me Pat, which would get confusing for <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone</span> when a new friend and my Mom were both calling for me at the same time by two different names! <br /><br />With this exchange finished, a teacher’s aide walked me down the hall and down the stairs to my new classroom. I stared out the windows as we walked the long hallway with a song playing in my head: “Good morning, America, how are ya? Say, don’t you know me? I’m your native son…” <br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8oMRPd0HMUQ" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"City of New Orleans" by Arlo Guthrie.</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-53995849660714332752009-06-09T21:12:00.001-05:002009-06-09T21:21:06.986-05:00September 1972: DANNY O'KEEFE - Good Time Charlie's Got the Blues<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si8WrydFHhI/AAAAAAAABtk/OCyx7B20rbc/s1600-h/good+time+charlies+got+the+blues.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 328px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si8WrydFHhI/AAAAAAAABtk/OCyx7B20rbc/s400/good+time+charlies+got+the+blues.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345516224245997074" border="0" /></a>I hadn’t yet logged enough time to have any memories of first grade at Brown Elementary when, one day after school, Dad sat me down on the back porch for a talk. <br /><br />He pointed to the horse pasture and told me that Sugar was gone, and that he was leaving, too. He said something about “divorce,” and started to cry. I didn’t understand the meaning of that word, but because he was crying, I started crying, as well. <br /><br />After he left the house, I ran into my parents’ bedroom and saw that all the things atop his chest of drawers – a golf trophy, a tray for his watch, a little jar that held change and such – were gone. Only upon sight of the empty spaces did I finally understand the magnitude of his words. He was gone. He took his stuff and the pony, and he was gone. <br /><br />Obviously, the folks had conducted all the heartbreak and details of dissolving a marriage as quietly as possible. Nothing was said before or during, and not much was said after, either. The oceans of silence may have been more traumatic than the crashing waves of discord that classically accompanies divorce. <br /><br />The memories of the remainder of September and all of October are (blissfully?) unavailable to me, save for bidding a teary farewell to my dog Trouble, who was off to the pound. Maybe this mental rest stop was necessary to prepare for a new level of awareness coming my way. <br /><br />Whereas things previously floated by on the whimsy of an idyllic childhood, my mind would too soon snap to attention, monitoring all the details around me and trying to fit pieces into a puzzle that made no sense. Though all the adults around me went out of their way to keep me from comprehending on an intellectual level, the emotional level could not be controlled by them, and that aspect was on the surface and all too active. I disappeared into the ether for a bit, and only the radio would be able to pull me back into a new reality.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uV9EWI2H4no" target="_blank">"Good Time Charlie's Got The Blues" as done by Dwight Yoakam.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-16502305791999956652009-06-09T20:42:00.001-05:002009-06-09T20:47:28.625-05:00September 1972: RICK NELSON - Garden Party<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si8Pg5YViZI/AAAAAAAABtc/WpPFcuQBFvQ/s1600-h/rick+nelson+garden+party.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si8Pg5YViZI/AAAAAAAABtc/WpPFcuQBFvQ/s400/rick+nelson+garden+party.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345508340545194386" border="0" /></a>It’s time to start First Grade!<br /><br />I was so happy to finally start real, official school. Even though by dint of birth date I could’t do kindergarten on schedule, I was already a voracious reader and had honed my writing skills with ballpoint pen all over my album jackets. Now it was time to fine-tune these skills and experience the pleasure of carrying a thermos of soup and Tupperware full of peaches in my very own lunch box.<br /><br />The anticipated joys of 1st grade were quickly squelched by the cutest boy in the 2nd grade telling me I looked like the Jack-in-the-Box clown. At nursery school, we only insulted each other because we were friends, but I didn’t know this kid at all and he instantly hated me? This is what the big leagues are like? <br /><br />But that was nothing compared to my teacher, Mrs. Brown, dressing me down in front of the entire class for turning in my writing assignment in cursive, rather than the wobbly, uncertain block print my classmates were struggling with. I was used to stern words for bad behavior, but this confused me because I didn’t understand what was bad about cursive and what I did wrong. <br /><br />That night, in tears, I told Mom about this, and we struck a deal: I’d play along with what they wanted at school, but at home I was free to cursive all I wanted.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“You can’t please everyone so you got to please yourself.” </span><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3fs2FO1zYo" target="_blank">"Garden Party" by Rick Nelson.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-31128972063463869062009-06-09T20:10:00.001-05:002009-06-09T20:27:23.265-05:00August 1972: BREAD - Guitar Man & THREE DOG NIGHT - Black & White<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si8IEBWFkeI/AAAAAAAABtU/JUdicsAglhA/s1600-h/guitar+man+black+and+white.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 188px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si8IEBWFkeI/AAAAAAAABtU/JUdicsAglhA/s400/guitar+man+black+and+white.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345500147885642210" border="0" /></a>Even while distracted by <a href="http://archive.sesameworkshop.org/tec/" target="_blank">The Electric Company</a> and <a href="http://www.saturdaymorning.pop-cult.com/bugaloos.html" target="_blank">The Bugaloos</a>, I could tell something was wrong. Dad wasn’t around the house much, and even though he was mowing the grass right on schedule, his long absences were odd.<br /><br />And even though that meant Mom and I spent more solo time together, she seemed distracted. Then on one gray, misty early morning as she drove me to nursery school, I picked up on a deep sadness seeping out of her. She said nothing, so I said nothing while bleakly watching a rain-soaked soybean field out the passenger window as Bread sang, “Then the lights begin to flicker and the sound is getting dim…”<br /><br />A bit later, I got to “go bumming” with my Dad on a Saturday morning. This used to be a normal routine for us, and I loved tagging along while he took care of business, but it just wasn’t happening as much as it once did.<br /><br />As were heading back home, “Black &amp; White” by Three Dog Night came over the AM radio, and me merrily singing along was interrupted by Dad giving me a pop quiz: “Do you know what this song is really about?”<br /><br />I recalled seeing an animated version of the song on <a href="http://www.tvparty.com/sonnycher.html" target="_blank">The Sonny &amp; Cher Show</a>, but no, that wasn’t it. He proceeded to give me a basic overview of the song’s symbolism being about racial equality (“black ink is black people, the white page is white people”), which threw me off because one thing I knew for sure is that Dad didn’t like colored people. So what was he getting at?<br /><br />In light of what was coming around the bend, I realize in retrospect that my Dad was probably trying to diffuse massive guilt by taking a stab at imparting racial harmony, which was probably easier for him to swallow than the things that could have been said.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVtdYKVXYhI" target="_blank">"Guitar Man" by Bread.</a><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GC7JJy9fvbA" target="_blank">"Black &amp; White" by Three Dog Night.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-12840261850436914262009-06-09T19:31:00.000-05:002009-06-09T19:40:45.649-05:00August 1972: CHICAGO - Saturday in the Park & DANIEL BOONE - Beautiful Sunday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7_KuBHeKI/AAAAAAAABtM/HJI295x1iSY/s1600-h/saturday+in+the+park+beautiful+sunday.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7_KuBHeKI/AAAAAAAABtM/HJI295x1iSY/s400/saturday+in+the+park+beautiful+sunday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345490367351847074" border="0" /></a>It was all about the weekends, because Dad bought a carriage (which he spray painted bright yellow) to hook up to my pony Sugar, and he’d drive me and the older kids on the block up and down our country street. “Saturday in the Park” and “Beautiful Sunday” exactly embodied how I felt during these moments.<br /><br />Staying horse-related, “Popcorn” by Hot Butter always brings back a great memory of the sound of a blue-black, prize-winning pony stampeding down the street, dragging a cart behind him and barreling into our driveway.<br /><br />Dad decided to breed Sugar with Billy Blue Blazes, who lived at Farmer Don’s place many miles further down Douglas Road. Seems bringing Sugar to Billy’s crib wasn’t producing the desired result, so when Sugar went back into heat, they’d bring Billy to Sugar.<br /><br />Turns out Sugar was at the height of heat during the middle of a family gathering at our house, and relatives be damned, this was happening! Sugar was brought out to the driveway. Billy Blue Blazes was unhooked from the cart, and without any fanfare, he got right to humping. Naturally, this bit of equestrian procreation brought the entire family to the picture window to watch, and Billy gave them a bit of show by pooping while humping!<br /><br />This attempt turned out to be the one that took, and good thing, because Great Aunt Lilly about fainted from the shock and indignation of watching animal sex. But if this was so absolutely upsetting, why didn’t she just look away?<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTFD1C4tVIg" target="_blank">"Saturday in the Park" by Chicago.</a><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwjuKhBIIIQ" target="_blank">"Beautiful Sunday" by Daniel Boone.</a><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ae7Cz7wvAk" target="_blank">"Popcorn" by Hot Butter.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-88948864726138897252009-06-09T18:56:00.000-05:002009-06-09T19:08:44.257-05:00July 1972: THE SWEET - Little Willy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si723xTiA9I/AAAAAAAABtE/q_q8kbvXGyo/s1600-h/1972+Sweet+Little+Willy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si723xTiA9I/AAAAAAAABtE/q_q8kbvXGyo/s400/1972+Sweet+Little+Willy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345481245723853778" border="0" /></a><br />Oh yes, one’s first vinyl LP is a major milestone, but nothing is sweeter than being introduced to the immediate pop gratification of singles.<br /><br />Once again, Kmart was the place where a vinyl addiction took seed. Mom let me pick out any song I wanted, and the selection of this 45 rpm actually had more to do with the familiar gray and black Bell Records label (<a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2006/10/october-1970-partridge-family-i-think.html"target="_blank">hello, Partridge Family</a>) showing through the round cut-out of the single jacket than it did with an urgent need to possess this song. But it was a great choice; I played the crap out of this raucous single, and it brought about my first experience with musical criticism. <br /><br />The B-Side to “Little Willy” was “Man From Mecca.” Musically, I found it crude and boring, while lyrically, I couldn’t think of anything more stupid than lines such as, “Like a white mouse hiding in a house.” Note that the B-side was written by the band, while the A-side was by Chinn &amp; Chapman, the latter of whom would be part of another musical explosion in my world, before the decade ended. <a href="http://tobymelt.blogspot.com/2006/02/t-rex-on-glam-rock.html" target="_blank">Here's a bit more about The Sweet experience.</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3XGjnQgsJA" target="_blank">Listen to "Little Willy" by The Sweet.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-70313082354443670672009-06-09T18:37:00.000-05:002009-06-09T18:51:12.876-05:00July 1972: LOOKING GLASS - Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7zB8Pw4vI/AAAAAAAABs8/Bi1yOQUVzWw/s1600-h/looking+glass+brandy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7zB8Pw4vI/AAAAAAAABs8/Bi1yOQUVzWw/s400/looking+glass+brandy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345477022413021938" border="0" /></a>This song has made a lot of people groan for a lot of decades, but from the point of view of a 6 year old, it was just perfect. It was a story song, ripe with imagery of unrequited love, lost love and sea-faring men drinking and admiring Brandy’s jewelry (you know, “a braided chain made from the finest silver from the North of Spain”…a place that <a href="http://song-line.blogspot.com/2009/06/february-1972-three-dog-night-never.html" target="_blank">Three Dog Night guy had never been to</a>, so Spain was an intriguing place, yes?).<br /><br />Many, many years later, when I first heard the voice of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBs0bRRzzG0" target="_blank">Nash Kato from Urge Overkill</a>, he sounded so familiar to me… where had I heard that voice before? It was on a port in the western bay that served a hundred ships a day! I considered that another plus for UO.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-dleViv2nc"target="_blank">Listen to "Brandy" by Looking Glass.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-56384192824488727872009-06-09T18:15:00.000-05:002009-06-09T18:25:31.765-05:00June 1972: MOUTH & MacNEAL - How Do You Do?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7tRQyagqI/AAAAAAAABs0/ixqK4k0ZKC4/s1600-h/mouth+and+macneal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7tRQyagqI/AAAAAAAABs0/ixqK4k0ZKC4/s400/mouth+and+macneal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345470688555336354" border="0" /></a><br />It was a glorious summer. The smell of the grass after Dad cut it with the riding mower, playing in the sandbox as the sun set, the smell of Sugar’s feed inside the tiny barn, and David Cassidy in constant rotation on the stereo. Yes, it was a glorious summer.<br /><br />The joyous stomp of the beat in “How Do You Do” matched my boundless girl energy, and I always loved songs that had men and women’s voices trading off lines (like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJZF-srbVTk" target="_blank">Ocean’s “Put Your Hand in the Hand"</a>), so it was a natural favorite. To this very day, the song always conjures the scent and feel of a completely naive and free summer.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2skBGdyoMkk" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Listen to "How Do You Do" by Mouth &amp; MacNeal.</span></a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-71065024909099790142009-06-08T20:52:00.000-05:002009-06-09T18:25:49.480-05:00April 1972: SAMMY DAVIS, JR. - The Candy Man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si3CkonSABI/AAAAAAAABsk/6OLJhDoBNCQ/s1600-h/Sammy-Davis-Jr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si3CkonSABI/AAAAAAAABsk/6OLJhDoBNCQ/s400/Sammy-Davis-Jr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345142267391901714" border="0" /></a><p></p>The timing couldn’t have been better with this song. It’s Easter time and the airwaves are full of an infectious tune about a man covering things in chocolate and making the world taste good. I still believed in the Easter Bunny, and figured if that cool, cool rabbit could sing, he’d sound much like Sammy.<br /><br />Easter meant an egg hunt first thing out of bed, and then we left the ranch to go to the city to see both of my grandmas, who gave me lots of candy and a paddle ball. Nothing better than getting all hopped up on malted milk and chocolate eggs and thwacking a rubber ball against plywood until either the rubber band snapped or the folks did.<br /><br />So, that was the anticipation, the hope based on former Easter’s, but it all went a bit odd on Easter Eve. My Mother rolled up two pin curls on either side of my face, held down with metal clamps that felt weird while awake, and made it nearly impossible to sleep. But I went along with it because she said it would make my hair look just as nice as my new Easter dress.<br /><br />On Sunday morning, she undid the pin curls, combed out my hair and it felt weird. Then I checked the mirror and I looked horrible! There was no convincing me otherwise, and I could barely hear them say so over my constant wails as I ran around my bedroom. This hairdo was ruining everything.<br /><br />To get me out of the house, Mother said I could wear my white fur hat which would probably flatten those curls a bit.<br /><br />It did not. And because those concrete curls wouldn’t budge, neither did the hat from my head. I wore it for the car rides, through church, through paddle ball… which created a fair bit of bratty kid tension for the family. Mother dealt with it by taking a picture of me pouting in the back seat of our fire engine red station wagon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7h6uBSP9I/AAAAAAAABss/YGCCR0slQIw/s1600-h/1972+Easter+Toby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 271px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si7h6uBSP9I/AAAAAAAABss/YGCCR0slQIw/s400/1972+Easter+Toby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345458206637440978" border="0" /></a><br />The minute we got back home, I removed the hat, put on my play clothes and literally dive-bombed into Trouble’s dog house, hoping a good canine roll in the dirt would make that hairdo disappear so we could separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream.<br /><span style=";font-family:&quot;;" ><o:p></o:p></span><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkI2ZIUgzAg" target="_blank">Listen to "The Candy Man" by Sammy Davis, Jr.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34907336.post-86969672654534515372009-06-08T20:23:00.001-05:002009-06-09T18:25:59.155-05:00March 1972: AMERICA - A Horse With No Name<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si25mJPkeSI/AAAAAAAABsc/_ZlWQum2oRo/s1600-h/america.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 282px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_x4QbaOSjS5E/Si25mJPkeSI/AAAAAAAABsc/_ZlWQum2oRo/s400/america.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345132397726038306" border="0" /></a><p></p>Aside from thinking this song was by the same guy who also did “Heart of Gold,” (which seems an honest mistake since America was blatantly trying to ape Neil Young, right?), it caused me a little concern. <br /><br />The lyrics were confusing. The desert is hot and dry and his skin burns and he’s real thirsty but he’s <span style="font-style: italic;">happy</span> about it? And what about the horse with no name… <span style="font-style: italic;">which you let go?!</span> <br /><br />I dearly loved my pony, Sugar, and the thought of being so whacked out that “after nine days I let the horse run free” was upsetting, and brought about a disturbing question: if I rode Sugar for 9 days in a row during the hottest part of the summer, would I possibly do the same heinous thing? <br /><br />Yeah, well, there were “plants and birds and rocks and things” in the pasture where I rode, and it rained fairly often in the spring, so I was safe from accidental pony abandonment.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0KKGdb4qUY" target="_blank">Listen to "A Horse With No Name" by America.</a><br />.tobyweiss.comnoreply@blogger.com0